


The County Paris's Adventures In Flirting

by LydiaOfNarnia (orphan_account)



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, I mean REALLY BAD you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris attempts to flirt. It doesn't end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The County Paris's Adventures In Flirting

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, okay, this is cracky. It is. The prompt was "I'm not going to lie to you. I want your babies." I had to use it in the story, and, well... I did.

Paris had never been good at flirting.

He knew it. He really, really knew it. It didn’t help that as a member of the royal family, charm and finesse was the sort of thing that was generally expected of you. And he could be charming, certainly; he was blessed with good looks, wealth, and a skill in dancing that (in his opinion) rivalled no other. He was as charming as they came- only not around women.

Around women he got a little… well, tongue tied wouldn’t be the right word. Mercutio, his ever charming cousin, would probably call it something like “word vomit”, or perhaps more harshly “word acid”. He honestly never meant to offend anyone; in his opinion, it was his curse, his ever-burdensome cross to bear. His problem was simply that around women (especially young, pretty women) he could never seem to find his footing in conversation; this usually led to him blurting out something horribly impolite, misleading, and/or just downright strange.

His uncle’s birthday ball was always a wonderfully extravagant affair; every year, without fail, Paris and his parents attended in the full splendor of their house. While seeing his rambunctious cousins wasn’t exactly a thing he looked forward to with baited breath, Paris always loved his uncle’s balls; there, the food, the music, and the company rivalled no other.

Especially, there was no shortage of pretty women. And on this occasion, such as any other instance when he found himself in the presence of such a fair crowd, Paris was determined to make the best of it.

The first would-be target of his affections; a sparkling, willowy blonde in a long grey ballgown with a silver train. To be honest, as he approached Paris found himself admiring the craftsmanship of her gown more than the girl’s lovely face itself. Really- _what a gown._ It was the sort of dress he’d be proud to waltz along a dance floor- with a woman attached, of course. Paris was fairly certain that dancing with only a gown wasn’t possible.

Catching the girl’s attention was easy; a simple glance, a smile in the right direction, and she was all ears. “You know,” he remarked, his voice smooth over the champagne glass he held in his hand, “your dress is almost as pretty as your face. Did you have any work done on it, or did you get it like that?”

He was genuinely at a loss when the girl suddenly drew back, letting out an offended gasp before promptly turning on her heel. A shame; and that really had been a nice dress. As he swallowed what remained of his champagne- it had a surprisingly tangy taste tonight, he noted with surprise- Paris couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

Briskly, however, he moved on to the next girl to catch his eye; this time, a short brunette with long, intricately braided hair and laughing eyes. Paris was certain that she was one of the most beautiful women there that night; talking to her, he thought, would almost be an even bigger honor for him than talking to _him_ would be for _her_.

This time, he was genuinely trying to play it cool; he didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of someone so beautiful. “Excuse me, miss,” he remarked, sauntering up behind the girl, who turned remarkably captivating pair of steely gray eyes on him. “But is that a bruise on your forehead?”

Automatically, the girl seemed alarmed; Paris took this to mean his line was working. “What?” she demanded, a hand automatically going to her head.

“Oh yes. It’s right there- it’s plain for everyone to see. I guess that means-”

“Oh my goodness- what could have happened?”

And before Paris could even finish his sentence, the girl had rushed away- likely in the direction of the bathrooms, where she’d be painstakingly checking herself over in the mirror for any bruises on her face. Paris watched her go, his smile slowly fading off of his face. “You fell from heaven…” he finished, dejected, and sighed before tipping back the rest of his strangely bitter champagne.

Another thing about Paris that many people might not be in knowledge of- he got drunk very, very easily.

This was a fact of which his two younger cousins were well aware. And, perhaps, should someone be brazen enough to slip a little extra vodka into Paris’s champagne glass when he wasn’t looking, they knew that his general obliviousness would leave him without a clue.

By the time he was three glasses in, it was clear to everyone except Paris himself that he was drunk. Dead drunk; _‘stumbling over and falling on your own face’_ drunk.

But circumstances weren’t about to stop Paris. No, he had a mission tonight- successfully flirt with a girl. And he intended to fulfill his mission to his greatest capacity, spiked champagne and hysterically laughing cousins be damned.

The redhead was without a doubt the most beautiful creature he had ever seen; she looked like a vision from a painting, the visage of an angel that surely appeared in some section of the Bible (a book he’d never actually bothered to read). She was conversing animatedly with several other people, but that wasn’t a deterrent to poor Paris; this was the girl for him, he was sure of it.

He promptly began to stumble over to her (indeed, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process- behind an intricately crafted ice sculpture, two of the youngest of Verona palace’s inhabitants were absolutely cracking up). Somehow, he managed to make it across the entire room, weaving his way through the crowd and to the red haired girl’s side in what he deemed record time. She took notice of him immediately- for reasons, he convinced himself, other than the fact that he had nearly taken a nosedive into the buffet table just before reaching her.

“Good evening, _mon ange,_ ” he greeted smoothly, oblivious to the baffled expression the girl wore on her face at the unusual address.

“Hello,” she replied cautiously. “Can I help you?”

Paris let out a laugh that was just a bit too loud, a bit too unrestrained. “Well…” he drawled.

And this is where the infamous “word vomit” came into play. For, in disregard to all his fastidiousness that night, his determination not to make a fool of himself, somehow Paris, in his own utter obliviousness (and drunkenness) managed to say the absolute worst thing at the absolute worst time.

“I'm not going to lie to you. I want your babies.”

Paris wasn’t sure what was worse; the sudden, harsh slap that rang across his face, the sound echoing loudly in his ears as the girl turned on her heel and stomped away, or the sharp gasp that sounded behind him, followed by a scandalized cry of “Paris!” from a voice that could only belong to his mother. 

The night ended with Prince Escalus’s young relative swiftly being escorted to a guest room, where he awoke the next morning with a raging headache and only the vaguest memories of the night before. The Prince’s two young nephews were scolded harshly, grounded, and the castle’s vodka stock was officially put under lock and key.

And in the end, Paris never wound up learning how to talk to women; nor, in fact, did he take any lessons in how _not_ to talk to them.


End file.
